lovetangles

 

SUSURRUS

 Susurrus soothing solidified solace 

Observing sound's romance with

Turgid agua creek banks and tall tremulous leaves, trees stretching yoga postures

Blue blue sky suggesting eternal value

To have and share vibrance ripples

Eddies upon Eddies upon Eddy's

Dancing rivulets of water/flow/times

Vortexian self-similarity like fractals

Doing the Schottisch one two three hop,one two three hop, hop,  hop,  hop,  hop…

Affectionate mental love making because

There is no comparison to being with this Mistress, except true love and one- ness;

Is no substitute but a great gratitudinous 

Ecstacy, kisses upon kisses

Deep intensity of sensitive chaos amidst

Forest glade and grass blade

The screenplay priceless photos

No fire other than the fire rushing pell mell

Along with multitudes of skirts up and no shame Anywhere.

Children running in almost mindless play

Glad tidings to all; happy to be right here

With a heart to feel the timeless joy and dances

Glance at the hand that so sublimely echos and mirrors the working man's hands and, oddly, the stones that speak of eons of effort

Don't really need a girlfriend cause this is Unconditional Love 

such lover we come back to over and over

Honey dripping from her mouth

Water pouring out of her and nothing else to  do but be naturally gorgeous and mysterious;

Susurrus is her name and flowing over rocks is her game;Nurturing the grassy banks and knolls

Frolic in the Forest Arroyo.

Volver Volver Volver , a tus Brazos otra  vez

Pebbles and  stones and boulders all cohabiting and each silently screaming,

Look at me on my billionth birthday today,

More or less.  Yes I've been around these parts. 

Volver a mis Brazos otra vez.

BARKITECTURE by Thor.

 

TO BE OR NOT TO BE; THAT IS THE QUESTION.

 When a woman loses a pregnancy there can be great grief and little support out there.

What do I mean?

A profound thing happens but often there are not clear reasons; mostly statistics for how often this happens; 25 per cent of the time, they say.  It is not considered all that important in some ways.

The body or some circumstance has somehow made a decision to abort.

The mother can grieve but there is not a body of deep understanding; like a strange little secret about the mystery being cast out somehow.

No religious ceremony.

No burial

No Grave

No poetry to read 

Few people to talk to…

No time off work

No money

No presents

Just no hopes anymore.

When a woman makes that decision,

In the situation of needing to do what

Nature does 25 per cent of the time;

Make a decision maybe once or twice in a lifetime 

Then still there is no poetry to read

No service

No support

No clean path.

So these women have a lot in common in one way and so does the slave woman who is impregnated or the girl on her first date or a women in a myriad of situations like this who might still wonder what the child might have looked like or acted like.

Natural curiosity.

Natural thoughts.

Like the pain of lost love

Or the pain of losing anything

Or the relief.

We need to control our bodies

Like how our hands make something.

How we decide to be ourselves.

Or see our lives like falling leafs 

And we learn to let other people just be themselves and not try to change them;

Turns out we pretty much can't anyway.

No matter how hard we try

Just almost impossible. 

So it appears that life is about

Choices; for all of us, even,

Sometimes really really impossibly 

Tough ones.

Still about probabilities and compromises,

Still about survival, just as our natural bodies seem to make tough decisions based on complicated calculus, so we, the owners of our bodies do the same and we attempt to Manage.

The unspeakable cruelty of a misogynist's 

Prying into their bodies and lives to ascertain that perhaps the woman ingested a pill is beyond reproach and yet, this is the world we find ourselves in;

Where a woman cowers while a man who needs a free vasectomy gloats about his concern for life.

Shame on them; those men and their patriarchal religions.

A woman should never ever ever be under the thumb of a man or have a man pry into their lives and bodies.

Period.

This must stop and most of the world knows it, except for the uneducated, fanatics.

Shame on them; hypocrites as they send their tender children off to war to die in their places.

They open up the grief and pain and stomp around by suggesting they will codify their dominance and intrusion.

 The pain 

Cowards and true murderers in fact!

Dogs in mangers.

You who have no tools to be a mother;

Back off!

The Longest Hug, another baffle.

The Falling Leaf and the Long Hug

Just why; don't know and so much seems baffling these days, 

That it is worth it to process this phenomenon As well as the attachments and detachments, the hellos and goodbyes, the falling of the 'la vida qual un hoja seca…" https://youtu.be/5j9u1hrkL8M. A waltz.

If you share a very long kiss, then you know that when to stop is a good question; is sooo long that it defies imagination and takes on a character and life unto itself wherein one feels,truly a part of the other person and sensitivity and exploration of the genre becomes part and parcel of the activity.  Not just a kiss but away and on a

 brink, cusp, edge, point, verge.

And the very very long hug on the threshold"  "I came to give you a hug."  As it turned out, I knocked on the door and he came to the door looking sad and I said ‘ “ I came to give you a hug”.  So we embraced for, perhaps, an hour or more right there on the threshold, straddling it..  The poetry does not escape me, as there were great questions being pursued non verbally at this precise location of the house: and the questions include: is this hug actually doing something important to make things better, in search of the wisdom of goodness; here is a hug as a kind and good way to pursue questions, enact safety as a care; as a way to break through; cross a threshold into something new and better.  The length of the hug also involves a rather complicated question: when to stop hugging!  This is similar to love and when to start kissing.  In conversation, when to start or stop talking.  When to go or stop anything.  The poetry of the door, whose highest energy component from the perspective of a builder, is:  Where is the threshold to be put; how high above the interior and exterior floors, how to connect these two major surfaces of the indoors and the outdoors, the inside and the outside ; how to connect with the actual door and make a good seal and sweep; to connect with the jamb and the screen, to be tough enough to withstand years of being tread upon, to be level and to stop wind and water from entering and to signify the very beginning of the home, in this case, where visitors cross over into a special space, not tripping, not slipping and smoothly as possible.  This is the threshold that a groom carries a bride across.  At my first wedding, I remember being drunk and trying to bring the bride and a large flowering plant gift, like a bougainvilla, into the house and tripping over the threshold with my new wife; both tumbling into the house, drunk and foolish and clumsy and fallen.  Hmmm; not the best beginning, but there it all was; on the threshold.

*Today*; the two men clasped each others trunks and held on tightly for a very very long time; making a bond and connection that defies simple friendship and the one friend is purported to be very disturbed; so much that perhaps only a hug might be the activity of the day after an hour’s drive one way.  A pregnant moment right there on the threshold of hope of some soothing of some deep sadness, anxiety. We were on the: brink, verge, cusp, edge, point,

The detachment from the hug and the next thing to do and/or say.  

The falling leaf and Nicholaus’ casket:

Nicholaus died a large man and his dear large brother perhaps ordered up a large wooden dovetailed or finger jointed box coffin and after tapping down the lid with nails and with a little hammer. And the burial with the many mourners that seemed quintessentially black and the rain started pouring and the lightning was perceived to strike the freshly carved deep hole; deep enought for two (him and the woman he divorced!)

People were milling around the fake grass, the large pile of dirt, the fountain nearby and something was amiss and extreme specificity was called for; the very large coffin may not fit! Fractions of inches and perhaps afoot to the east, perhaps a quarter inch to the north,, perhaps if a large man (even me...but that is not my place here) to just stand on the coffin for ballast; and then the undertaker and the youngest son did just that. 

And sweet sweet sister Lydia from Alaska emerged from the crowd to muse with me about this falling leaf production and see the poetry and the humor of the situation,  like from Dostoevsky...and the merriment of this penultimate denouement stage and sweet Nick, kind, good, otherworldly, a personality that was wafted into life as a master of 'philo-kalia'...the search for and the study of the 'good'; his father's suggestion for a branch ot academic and spiritual pursuit..should be a branch paralleling philo-sophy!  

See what I mean by baffling!

The falling leaf is it in on the threshold of another dimension; like a leaf carried downstream in a flashflood after wafting down after having detached from the tree.    

The other bit is about what Ben asked me, breaking the ice by speaking, "have you been taking the ducks to the river?   This relates to a piece I  wrote, a poem of sorts that describes how taking the ducks to the creek can open up the heart and turn things around:.

Ducks On Creek

Sometimes;

I have a tightness in my throat, a slight vaguely debilitating

Queasiness in my gut; A dry feeling like something is missing

That I want to find to be whole,

Like hunger, like thirst, like boredom or dis-ease or fear and itchy clothes,

I sort of live with it.

Then:

When I take our ducks to the water, to the creek,

First out of their little prison home,

Where they have been saying “HA, HA, HA, HA, HA”

And we go wending, waddling our way, down the road, me prodding them

In the late afternoon sun, usually,

And I watch them immediately begin to play upon the bed, the creek bed

Splash, dive, splish, duck, tail wiggle, like happy dogs with bobs,

With utter abandon and no self-consciousness, busy at once, immediately,

Doing what they most certainly do best,

And I watch the water beads roll off their backs mercurially,

(and I think of all those “duck” expressions, thinking how great that

Words and reality can be so right on).

I watch them float and bob downstream between the rocks

Perfect little boatlets.

Then rapidly bill- poke the drink to garner little evasive edibles

And clean themselves all over, fluffing feathers, shaking, bill nipping and adjust,

Spreading riots of wetness all around them,

Great splashes and wing-flappings.  Busy, totally busy,

And skimming over the Galisteo with breeding force.

And all the while the creek seems to like the ducks, too,

Bubbling, free spilling, ponding; eddy and susurrus rill,

And I want to be a part of it; I prompt them with my stick, light and long,

To deeper climes and funner spots, them happy as clams about it all,

And, in that whole time as I watch, the tightness goes away,

And my own joie de vivre returns, like an answered, unspoken prayer.

And we, as the sun sets, walk home, them needing no direction, calmly, Cleanly.

I am thankful for the river and the ducks, for the time,

For this time, this special time when all’s right, somehow,

Things are just as they should be, everything is in its right place.

And I want others to know this feeling tooAnd take their ducks to their creek for a spell.

Something that pure is…. something worth saving.

( my grandmother told me that 'we' can be traced back to Alfred the Great, and somehow I thought he was French, but I  was being given a tour of the Stonehenge area some years ago and Uncle Michael was pointing out the barely visible spectre of the ancient Roman road to Bath from the car and then we drove a few more yards and he said , "this ditch is where Alfred the Great fought off the Danes and I  said, "put on the brakes" .  This falling leaf thing, the longest kiss, the longest hug and the biggest coffin all just baffles me.

I wonder if ducks wander and splish and trompse around, perhaps overly circumspect in the water like me on land or in a guy hug or a gal kiss, wonder if they are baffled too, at times. Ha, HA, ha,HA,, ha.

 

 

 

Ducks On Creek

Sometimes;

I have a tightness in my throat, a slight vaguely debilitating

Queasiness in my gut; 

A dry feeling like something is missing

That I want to find to be whole,

Like hunger, like thirst, like boredom or dis-ease or fear and itchy clothes,

I sort of live with it.

Then:

When I take our ducks to the water, to the creek,

First out of their little prison home,

Where they have been saying “HA, HA, HA, HA, HA”

And we go wending, waddling our way, down the road, me prodding them

In the late afternoon sun, usually,

And I watch them immediately begin to play upon the bed, the creek bed

Splash, dive, splish, duck, tail wiggle, like happy dogs with bobs,

With utter abandon and no self-consciousness, busy at once, immediately,

Doing what they most certainly do best,

And I watch the water beads roll off their backs mercurially,

(and I think of all those “duck” expressions, thinking how great that

Words and reality can be so right on).

I watch them float and bob downstream between the rocks

Perfect little boatlets.

Then rapidly bill- poke the drink to garner little evasive edibles

And clean themselves all over, fluffing feathers, shaking, bill nipping and adjust,

Spreading riots of wetness all around them,

Great splashes and wing-flappings.  Busy, totally busy,

And skimming over the Galisteo with breeding force.

And all the while the creek seems to like the ducks, too,

Bubbling, free spilling, ponding; eddy and susurrus rill,

And I want to be a part of it; I prompt them with my stick, light and long,

To deeper climes and funner spots, them happy as clams about it all,

And, in that whole time as I watch, the tightness goes away,

And my own joie de vivre returns, like an answered, unspoken prayer.

And we, as the sun sets, walk home, them needing no direction, calmly, 

Cleanly.

I am thankful for the river and the ducks, for the time,

For this time, this special time when all’s right, somehow,

Things are just as they should be, everything is in its right place.

And I want others to know this feeling too

And take their ducks to their creek for a spell.

Something that pure is…. something worth saving.

                                                                                                                             -Thor Sigstedt